For a Fitting Sacrifice
by Animegoil
Summary: Raphael would later remember the one moment when it'd begun, with Michael in his arms, the dragon ending headless at his jaw, and it'd awe him to think that he'd carved out such an essential part of Michael himself. Of tattoos, nicknames and feeling


**First off, this fic is largely (but loosely) based on Good Pain, by Eightfold. It's an excellent fic, and what inspired me to write this, and you might wanna stop and read that one first, though it's not really necessary. **

**Second... this is my first Raphael/Michael, but I love the dynamics. So yes, shounen-ai, BL, whatever you wanna call it in here. As well as some language.**

**Third... Enjoy!**

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_**For a Fitting Sacrifice**_

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His sweat-slicked body was tense and rigid against Raphael's own, and blue Astral electricity bathed the room in blue and navy shadows that flickered and morphed in imitation of a strobe light. The serpentine dragon that wove its scales from low on the Great Power's hip ended headless at the rise of Michael's collarbone, and shone with a neon azure deeply contrasted by the stark outline of the angry-red swollen flesh.

As soon as Raphael paused, taking a deep breath to recall the Astral power—this was the longest he'd had to call upon it continuously—Michael's lithe body slumped like a hung rag doll after the gales subside, and Raphael had to bend his knees to re-hoist his body back into a comfortable position. His office reeked of ozone, and other indistinguishable smells, and he felt like he was in a forbidden act, just the two of them in the dark room, sterile and unpromising, but draped in the thick comforter of hormones and sweat and pain, which was hardly comforting in the least. He felt slightly queasy, though it was a feeling he was easily able to shove away— it was the queasiness that came with feeling another angel's pain, and he desperately wanted to reach up and scratch his own shoulder, a nagging feeling coming from it in response to Michael's own anguish, emanating from that tangible attempt at gaining attention—his brother's, god's, _everyone's_.

"…Finish it…" came the weak murmur, and Raphael wanted to roll his eyes at the pride that the Great Powers just wasn't able to keep from his voice, the arrogant, vicious sneer that at the moment was so contradicting of his predicament, and seemed a weak, useless shadow of what it usually was. It showed how deeply the persona he'd become to try to obtain a place in Lucifel's heart was woven into his subconscious, that even in half-consciousness it was an implanted and preset characteristic of his voice and body.

"Lay still then," was all Raphael bothered to respond him with impassively, but he had to admit that the Angel of War had most certainly endured this pain so stoically that it made his blood run cold, because Raphael knew he'd never be able to limit himself to the few moans, shudders and jerks that Michael had.

The Great Powers opened his mouth to respond with something, his dilated eyes whirling with an animalistic, crazed pain, but Raphael doubted that he'd actually heard his words. Green eyes closed then, a bloody, raw mass of flesh flicking out to lick equally bloody, frayed lips that only mumbled out something that could have been 'Lucifel,' or 'aniki' or 'God', but most likely was just another pained moan.

Raphael dragged his fingers experimentally along the sharp upward curve of the redhead's neck, mentally visualizing what his dragon's head would be like. The contours of his face and neck lent themselves naturally to the curves of the Seiryuu, but Raphael found the sensation of the flushed, sweaty skin was distracting him, as was the ragged breathing that was warming his chin—when had he gotten that close, that his lips were a centimeter away from the delicate bridge of the Great Power's nose?

"_Do it_!" he hadn't meant to find himself so entranced by the heated body pressed against him, nor the sinfully swollen crimson lips, nor his shallow breathing and flushed face, and so the gritted groan snapped him back to reality, and his wings fluttered behind, mimicking his surprise. Michael's lay limp, the feathers looking messy and grim, quivering in distress—a beautiful, and more telling mirror of his owner.

"Shh," he soothed automatically—Raphael wasn't sure why; he'd never been the comforting type, even to his worst patients, and he had to hold Michael against him in the dip of his forearm and elbow to gently unclamp the Power's fingers, which were currently cutting off his circulation and digging pretty crescent moon shapes on his wrist. The action, though, seemed more like that of a child's clinging painfully to his mother. He didn't think Michael had ever had much of a chance to do that particular action when younger, and he wasn't sure if the notion that it was being done to _him_ sat easy in some spot of his mind that feared attachment and rejection.

The neck muscles were a particularly sensitive spot, and Raphael gently stroked it, letting the divine electricity crackle along it almost as if in preparation for the coming pain. He sunk his fingers more firmly into Michael's side, his left arm supporting his back, and his right hand finally let the energy loose to trace his mind's image into Michael's moonlight pale skin, milk with a rosy tinge, and he could conjure up a million analogies and metaphors for how enticing that skin that twitched and rebelled against the Astral blue lightning with crimson welts was, and the body that writhed against him in barely suppressed pain, eyes screwed shut, lips that had finally been bitten through pressing tightly together.

Before, with his face next to Michael's heart, he'd been able to closely monitor the hammering heartbeat that beat out even the speed of a hummingbird's wings, but now, with his ear centimeters from brushing the tip of the Great Power's thrashing chin, he had the pleasure of monitoring every moan and groan that coiled and uncoiled from deep in his throat, even those that did not make it to lash out of his mouth, and the heartbeat was replaced by the breaths that hitched periodically, but mostly continued in a gradually quickening pulse, blowing strands of Raphael's flaxen hair wildly.

He could see the artery in his neck bulging with effort, and it was actually slightly grotesque to see it pulsing, all of it reminding him that he was working on a _living_ being, and for a moment, felt a stab of sympathy instead of merely detached respect for the madness and resolve. The indigo blue that bloomed at each spot his Astral powers stitched their influence upon spread like neon waters up the small angel's neck, shimmering scales taking shape, a wing spreading along his shoulder, a tail flicking the tip of his hip bone, beautiful, _alive_, a breathing being that Raphael had no idea how much it would come to represent Michael and everything he was. The Great Powers would soon be denoted and recognized by that majestic Seiryuu that would inspire fear and awe upon all who beheld it. Probably a nice change from the mockery and disbelief that usually preceded him because of his stature and looks, but it was still overwhelming for the Angel of Wind to reflect, years later, that _he_ had been the cause of it all, that he had carved out this part of Michael himself.

_He looks…. unearthly, _Raphael couldn't help but think, tilting his head up slightly to look at the blue-bathed face glistening with perspiration and twisted with pain, even if the thought was obvious. Probably the correct description would be 'beyond angelic' or 'truly angelic', since even though they were all angels, somewhere inside he _knew_ that they were not what the word seemed to imply at first impression. He knew what humans thought of angels, and it made him feel dirty and sinful and _human_ himself, and disgusted at all of Heaven, because he knew that in human standards, at least, they were all a dirty, dirty lie. Belial had proved that to him. But he had to remind himself that it was not humanity's standards that he was to guide himself by and judge Heaven, but by God's standards.

The torture session was nearly over, and none too soon, because Raphael wasn't too sure how long the slim body would hold up with this excruciating pain—even angelic bodies as perfect as Michael's had limits, and Astral energy was no joke, especially the Great Virtues'. His Seiryuu was now at the jawline, and that was when the fist crumpled sob broke loose, and the body thrashed once wildly, all muscles in his body locking up, and Raphael had the disconcerting urge to press him closer and for a moment, his hand almost stilled in regret at how he was mauling this magnificent creature.

"Almost done," he muttered, more to himself, because Michael was far too gone in his tortured anguish to be conscious of anything anymore, Raphael was sure. He continued, because Michael had asked for this _himself_. And it wasn't like Raphael truly gave a damn, right?

Up along his cheek, delicately, and Raphael had to adjust his Astral power minutely to accommodate the delicate flesh of the skin as he'd had to do with the skin of his neck as well. The crackling, faint smoke that rose from that marked skin was suffocating, pure ozone and burnt flesh, and Michael's hands somehow found their way to Raphael's chest, tearing and clutching in rhythm with his half-screams-half-sobs, but Raphael was more aware of the redhead's pain than of his own, even if there was the coldly burning sensation of blood on his chest, his flesh tearing and accumulating under Michael's fingernails. He had to use both arms to support Michael's body, his right elbow on Michael's side to push him against Raphael's chest and his left arm shifting up from the waist onto the shoulder blades, so that he could use his left hand to hold Michael's head still. The position was unbearably uncomfortable, but Raphael's focus was so intent on finishing that he somehow didn't think of laying Michael on his examination table.

He'd thought it to be appropriate for the dragon's tongue to lick the underside of Michael's eyelid, but the Great Power's eyes were half-lidded, and Raphael could see neither iris nor pupil, telling him Michael's body was too far gone for him to risk his safety by threatening the ever-so-delicate and sensitive pressure point on his eyelid—he didn't think the redhead could take it, pain-wise, not at this point. His body had once again slumped into Raphael's, and the Great Virtues' hand slipped from underneath his back once or twice from the perspiration that now trickled in droplets along his graceful, lax body.

He wasn't quite out of it, it was obvious by the constant, hitching moans, the breathing that now reminded Raphael of a man who'd been resuscitated from near drowning, whose body fights to regain each breath of life lost in those precious minutes edging closer to death. Or maybe that of a sprint runner's, after reaching the limit and back, on the verge of collapse. In any case, Raphael winced, and only immense concentration and a doctor's practice at steady hands under any circumstance kept him from nearly sizzling Michael's eye when a heavy, rock-hard boot lashed out and scraped away the top layer of the healer's shin. He almost did wish Michael would pass out, because it would spare _both_ of them the pain.

Still, he knew better than to wish that, because since when did the Great Powers ever abide by his wishes? It was something he'd learn very soon into the future. His golden, thread-like hair brushed against Michael's face, catching on his eyelashes, and the smaller angel leaned into the foreign sensation, as if seeking comfort, distraction. Another heartbreakingly young sob, and Raphael suddenly couldn't take the humid breath that condensed against his face, nor the tantalizing moans, nor his own nausea reacting to Michael's pain. And as the last flicker of lightning flashed, adorning the flick of the dragon's tongue, and in the same crackle, the shine of the great Seiryuu's eye, he let his head fall, crushing his lips against the torn, raw flesh that was the remnants of the Great Powers' lips. The bitter, alkaline metal taste and smell of blood invaded his mouth, like a forbidden fruit that he wanted to spit out and suck on longer at the same time. He resisted the sudden urge to slip his tongue out, reminding himself that his patient was unresponsive, the limp, sluggish body that Raphael had to hold up testament to that. He couldn't say whether he actually felt guilty about that or not however, but he lifted his mouth and licked his lips, and there was now blood smeared around their mouths like a masochist's lipstick.

The Astral energy dissipated, and the room was now very dimly lit by the dying sun, sinking among the sands of clouds like a seashell swallowed by the waves and sand. Papers lay scattered everywhere by the currents of their beating wings, both pairs weak and flailing desperately. Raphael's body buckled, and he caved in ungracefully to the floor, somehow managing to hold onto Michael, though the Great Powers' lithe body was simply tugged to the floor like a limp mannequin. He was suddenly aware of the adrenaline brought on by deep concentration and—though he wished to deny it—the sinful form that lay warmly across him, shimmering in sweat, the contours of his body highlighted by shadows and light, and the bloody smears across their faces, hands and chests. Raphael sat up and cradled Michael in his arms, trying to still his breathing and the buzzing sensation that was a side effect of the electric Astral energy. He was only now aware of the stinging pain of the deep gauges across his chest, and that his heartbeat—not as violently paced as Michael's—pounded almost painfully in his chest, and his own breath was rather shaky. His nausea ebbed away now that he wasn't taxing his powers and sat prone on the ground.

For Michael, however, though the immediate pain had ceased, the lingering pain of his scarred flesh was still burning, and would for a long time, as the flesh retaliated and scarred in a most beautiful way. The absence of the mind-numbing, sanity-shattering pain seemed to click in his mind though, and Raphael watched him slowly fade back, not minding that both of them were soaked in sweat, and Michael's body was uncomfortably hot, and that he felt lightheaded from the whole fiasco. No, instead, he chose to watch how his golden hair appeared to tickle the Great Powers' senses back into coherence, swishing lazily across his beautiful, childish face, now adorned with a hissing dragon that had materialized and proclaimed its home on Michael's cheek. Michael's own hair was damp at the roots, the faintest trail of black peeking at the very roots of the hair before morphing into a brilliant, oxidized bloody red.

Raphael now noticed that it wasn't just sweat that had made the Great Powers' face glisten, and he traced the young angel's lower eyelid with as much detachment as he could. Liquid shone on his fingertips, and he brought his hand up to his mouth and licked his fingertips. The taste of the tear felt like a gunshot on his tongue—Salty, maddening, too real and detailed and _strong_ in this situation, and he hastily wiped it on his coat. He'd have to throw it away anyway, it was bloody and torn, thanks to a certain Archangel of Fire.

The cries of pain had subsided from an unconscious release of anguish into something more self-aware, slowing as the Great Powers began to regain hazy consciousness, and his pre-set persona took hold of his self-control in a tight reign.

"...F-fuck… it's fucking… done…?" That rebellious, indignant, arrogant, but more than anything _lunatic, manic and crazed_ grin that showed those two almost adorably pointy canines peered out from underneath the raw mass of flesh that was his lips, but his head still lolled uselessly to the side when he shifted it, and his eyes were nothing but dull green glass orbs that appeared to be filled with thick smoke.

The Great Powers' gaze lay unfocused for a moment, and Raphael would have bet he knew what single thought ran through that crazy, one-track mind of the angel. _Will he notice me now?_

_Will I be loved and respected?_

Raphael wished he could say with certainty, yes.

Michael's eyes closed tiredly, and his throat let out a couple sounds, as if wanting to say something, and so Raphael leaned closer in an attempt to hear what he was going to say. Michael's ragged bursts of breath puffed against his lips, so close were they, and Raphael lifted the angel's head onto what he hoped was a more comfortable position. It'd open up his airways a little more, at least, and help him clear his head, his doctor's mind told him.

"You… there was… a kiss," and before Raphael could even decipher the incomprehensible mumble— _to deny? Admit? Repeat?_— the rough, broken lips were on his again, this time not through his own actions, and he had the sickening pleasure of being inundated with the raw taste of bloody flesh and bitter, alkaline saliva. Rough, as he should have expected, and Michael shoved his tongue in remorselessly, forcing himself with a desperation that had the undertones of franticness and denial, and fear. The Great Powers expressed such 'weak' emotions by the roughness of his actions, and his fingernails found themselves once again lodged in Raphael's pale, already bruised skin as the Fire Angel bit his pointy canines into Raphael's tongue and tore at his lips before sucking the blood out with a moan.

Apparently, the reign of self-control was rather loose.

The smell of ozone and sweat was still strong, and it was a sickening stench, but there was something so enticing about the raw emotion and energy that Raphael let out a moan that was both due to pain and pleasure. And if Michael wanted to play it rough, then so could he, and the healer pushed his head forward until their noses were pressing against each other's faces, and their lips were numb from the overload of sensation and pressure, going on the pure adrenaline that had filled him since Michael's first explosive entrance into his office, and the deep impulse driving him from inside, a hammer to the nail of his desires. He could feel with his own tongue the bloody dips and cuts on Michael's tongue, and feel the slight bumps on the inside of his cheeks formed by years of biting on them, and traced his tongue along them with relish. The Great Powers' fingers tightened on Raphael's collar, seeking, needy, and Raphael brought the body quivering with its rigidity closer to him, pushing his tongue firmly against Michael's and taking as much as was being forced on him, allowing the rush of the burning heat to consume him.

And it couldn't have been more than a single minute, but it was more than Michael could handle, because his body finally became slack, the tension in his lithe form snapping as if it'd been a taut rope, and Raphael opened his eye in surprise as the mouth abruptly fell away from his, looking down at glazed green eyes that seemed to be asking him a question he couldn't fully grasp, panting raggedly and groaning. Then those forest green eyes closed, there was a nearly inaudible whimper, and Michael curled in around himself, one arm placed protectively over his chest and shoulder, the other grazing his face.

Raphael had to swallow several times to remove the taste of blood from his mouth, but the bitter metallic tang remained, and when he licked his lips out of nervous habit he found it all around his mouth too. His hands were trembling with suppressed emotion. He wasn't sure where it was coming from, but he didn't like it, didn't want it… why was temptation the hardest thing to resist when it was the most pleasurable? It was like a conundrum, or enigma, or oxymoron, he had no idea— the only reason he'd kissed Michael was to stop the sob that had been about to break loose, he told himself. And the second kiss… well, that had been Michael's fault.

And whether that was the truth or not, he almost didn't care at that point, and he pointedly ignored the voice that whispered _Why would you care if he'd sobbed once more?_ The heat was just too much—radiating from Michael's body like he was the sun, constant and feverish, and Raphael summoned a breeze, surprised to find that the action left him drained, as if he hadn't been tired enough already. It cooled him off, but Michael's slim body shivered feverishly. There was a warbled moan, and Raphael couldn't help but run his hands along his body in a warming gesture before pausing and watching him with something akin to awe. Why was this maniacal, impulsive, irrational angel drawing out such strange reactions from him? He couldn't imagine why, but sighed and allowed his instinct to lead him to take his bloody, torn coat off and wrap it as best he could around Michael. He was still sitting on the ground with the Great Powers pressed against him in a restless doze, and Raphael was content to continue that way for a moment more, shaking his wings to release the pent-up tension in them and regaining normal breath and pulse, though he found that strangely challenged by the small sounds emitted by Michael's throat, and the hitch in his eyebrows that gave his face a pained look and somehow made him look older but more vulnerable.

The Great Virtues leaned his head back, lifting up the only hand that was not busy supporting Michael to wipe his forehead, and he settled for watching the office fan twirl lazily in circles, letting nothing and everything run through his mind in flashes. Eventually, he came to notice that his office was nearly dark, and only the artificial lights shining outside provided any sort of illumination. Night had fallen, and while no one would miss Raphael, Michael probably had men who were expecting him, he was the general of an unruly army, after all. And his brother might get worried, he added, more because it was rational than because it was true.

He gathered up his energy and slid his other hand underneath the Fire Angel's legs to lift him up, tottering for a moment, and then deposited him on the couch. There was a pillow at one end that Raphael left for when he wanted to take a nap or had stayed in so late he might as well sleep at the office, and Michael's head sank into with something like a contented noise. Raphael watched him curl around himself, his back pressed against the back of the couch, his fingers gripping his shoulder so tightly the knuckles were white, and Raphael reached out to unclamp those fingers one by one, letting the hand settle again on the reddened curve of flesh. It was only out of sheer exhaustion that Raphael decided to sit at the edge of the couch, and he looked around his office, noting the door that he'd have to replace because it'd splintered into a thousand pieces, as well as the melted rug fused to the floor.

"You're a damn brat, you know that?" he muttered in Michael's direction, and adjusted the once-white lab coat a little higher over his chest. His fingers floated over the tattooed flesh, following the dragon's curves, and finally hovered over Michael's small hand, which cupped his burning cheek, and Raphael placed his on top of Michael's. His larger hand covered all of Michael's, warm and trembling just the slightest bit underneath his, roughened knuckles grazing his palm. A tragic mix of a child's body but an adult's emotional confusion.

He could still feel the demanding tongue inside his mouth, the teeth digging into his lips, and he traced his tongue lightly over the tears on his lower lip, warm and slightly swollen. It was then that he realized that his chest was still bleeding from the many gashes and scrapes of the Great Powers' nails, and he grumbled quietly and called up his power to heal himself, feeling the sting fade slowly as a breeze overtook him.

_Beep beeeep, beep beeeep_

The phone suddenly rang out, startling Raphael's hand from Michael's as if he'd been scalded. The ring continued, and the Great Virtues rolled his eyes in annoyance and got to his feet, finally answering the phone and turning on the com-screen. A stern face gazed back at him evenly, one eye covered in a metal shield-like object, underneath short, dirty-blonde hair. Raphael lifted one eyebrow in greeting, though he had a feeling he knew what this was about.

"Lord Raphael-sama. I apologize for the inconvenience, but I was hoping you knew the whereabouts of—" and that was when the eyes flickered over to behind Raphael, catching sight of the helpless child strewn across the couch, and they turned back to the Great Virtues' sky blue eyes, clearly waiting for an explanation.

"He's alright," Raphael assured him, quickly assessing that this was one guy he did not want to cross in any way, "He's only resting. I'll send him back whenever he wakes up."

"No need," the guttural voice interrupted, "I'll be over momentarily to pick him up."

Raphael nodded absently and turned off the com-screen, falling into his chair. He gazed at the papers that littered his desktop with a hint of exasperation, but figured that he'd wasted more than enough time with his little art project, and so grudgingly picked one of the forms out to begin working. He lazily went through the names of the patients he'd have to look at the next morning, inwardly shrugging as he couldn't come up with more than half of them.

It was annoying in a way that in actuality wasn't the way his eyesight flicked periodically from his papers to the restless form on the couch, and the prospect that he'd be soon leaving left Raphael slightly sour for some reason. He was exhausting, but one of the most interesting, and in some ways, the most honest person Raphael had met in this sea of charade-playing, protocol-following angels, of which he was one of, and worse, because he was one of those who betrayed the true sense of angels with his womanizing. Not that it was his fault—it was all Belial's.

Half a form later was when he heard the heavy-booted steps approaching, and the tall figure stepped through his totaled doorway, bowing deeply. Raphael inwardly damned his presence, because he was not in the mood to deal with people, and it had been strangely calming to sit at his desk watching Michael sleep, and this angel here was about to take that away from him.

"I apologize for Michael-sama's behavior."

Raphael waved it away tiredly, "How did you know to look here?"

"One of my men had said that he'd seen Michael-sama coming this way," came the plain, monotone reply. Raphael seriously had to wonder how a man like that up with someone like Michael. Or vice versa, for that matter.

"So you are… Khamael-dono, I presume?"

Khamael simply nodded, heading over to his master without another word, and Raphael watched with mild amusement as the huge man stopped in front of the diminutive angel and stared. There was a moment of silence, and then the face turned back to Raphael, questioning.

The Great Virtues shrugged and turned back to his work, and whether his nonchalance was feigned or not, his body went on automatic and he wasn't sure, "He asked me to do that, so I did. You might want to later reprimand him for his stupidity."

He didn't see the Armageddon-like man nod, but heard the shifting of cloth and observed from his peripheral vision as his lab coat was shoved to the side and Michael's body was lifted like a bag of feathers underneath Khamael's arm. Raphael inwardly winced and was tempted to call out until he noticed that he had been careful of Michael's masochistic brand. If anything, he could say, this man was truly devoted to his general. At least there was someone who kept a lookout for Michael, even if it wasn't exactly whom he wanted. Raphael wondered if this devotion was out of respect or fear.

"Tell him I'll be sending him the bill for my office tomorrow," Raphael waved them off, forcing himself not to take one last look, which was certainly strange, considering he usually was shooing most of his patients out of the office and feigning interest the whole appointment. Unless they were women, but that was a completely different story.

Another wordless nod, and Raphael made a mental note to get pissed off at the man's monotony when he wasn't so tired, and distracted. Of course, then he realized that to some people, he was just as equally unresponsive and inexpressive. He wondered if that would piss off Michael. The heavy boots stomped away, and once the drum-like sound had dissipated completely, Raphael rubbed his face, massaging his temples and willing away the greasiness and fatigue with fingers that were sore and tingling from an excess of Astral current. He stared up at the ceiling with sky blue eyes that somehow knew more with their mournful gaze than he did with his logic-bound brain and wondered if hope was indeed a flame that burned brighter the longer you minded it.

The breeze that fluttered unconsciously around him was a least refreshing, but then he looked over at the couch, with his ragged, once-white coat lying like a lump on it and it made null his breeze and increased the oppression of the dark milling in his office. He felt empty and blank, but that could have simply been fatigue speaking, or so he told himself.

A demanding tongue… a fiery body pressed against him… fingernails scraping away his flesh, and a tear drop that sent his taste into a frenzy … He wondered when he'd be able to _feel_ so much again, emotionally and physically. What was it about Michael that sent Raphael's jaded senses into overload?

He wondered a lot of things that night, and by the time he fell asleep slumped in his chair, a grand total of two forms lay haphazardly done on his desk.

His last thought, set to loop, was that maybe he'd pay his patient a visit tomorrow.

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**How was it? I have a second chapter for this that will... eventually be put up, and tie this all up. Review if you enjoyed, or if you just wanna yell out that you hate it.**


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